Sherlock Adventures
by LetAnOwlIn
Summary: An alternate Sherlock Universe, following some events of the show, but with an added character. Alyssa Winters, Crime Tech with a mysterious past (how does she know Mycroft?), who forms the unlikeliest of relationships. Although not blessed with Sherlock's IQ, she brings much needed empathy to the gang, and Sherlock is not the only man left changed by this.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Sherlock Holmes was a Consulting Detective. For the past 5 years, he had been enlisted by Detective Inspector Lestrade and his band of morons to solve mysterious cases all over London. When he wasn't being brilliant and solving unsolvable crimes, he was in the Morgue running experiments. Several days ago, he had been testing how bruises might appear on a corpse shortly after death, when an old friend had introduced him to a most interesting man. Dr John Watson, obvious war veteran from Afghanistan, with a psychosomatic limp in his left leg, was looking for somewhere to live. Sherlock had just found a lovely apartment in Baker Street that he simply could not afford to rent alone, and immediately decided John could be useful to have around. He was in need of an assistant, seeing as the majority of the police were so adamant against working with him. He couldn't see why. It wasn't his fault they were idiots.

Whilst Sherlock had been showing John Watson the apartment, Lestrade had turned up, finally deciding that the recent string of apparent suicides required Sherlock's attention. 3 bodies had been found so far, all in secluded locations, places they didn't need to be in, and they had all taken the exact same type of poison. Lestrade had decided to ask for Sherlock's help when a fourth body was found, and a note left. This was the first note, and Sherlock had been very excited to work on the case. Deciding to bring along Dr Watson, to see how useful he could be, they both had headed straight for the crime scene. The victim was called Jennifer… something. The moment he had walked into the room, Sherlock forgot her name. It was unimportant. What was important was she was dressed entirely in pink. John confirmed she had died of a possible drug overdose, and Sherlock had successfully impressed the good Doctor by deducing that the woman had travelled from Cardiff, was having several affairs, and was in London for one night only. The 'note' that Lestrade had mentioned was the most intriguing part. E. _Rache_ was German for revenge, but that didn't make any sense. It almost certainly was supposed to be Rachel. Why would the dying woman scratch the name Rachel into the floorboards?

Sherlock had further impressed John by stating that there had been a suitcase. There were track marks on the back of the woman's leg, and the suitcase was quite obviously pink, like the rest of her outfit. Sherlock had immediately left the crime scene, in a world of his own, or more particularly, his Mind Palace. His Mind Palace was his happy place, the place where he stored all of his information, and sorted through facts until things fitted together. Using his brilliant deduction skills, Sherlock found the victim's lurid pink suitcase within half an hour, before taking it back to his apartment.

Several hours later, Sherlock was sitting in his flat, back in his mind palace. John Watson had finally responded to his text, and Sherlock had instructed him to text the dead woman's phone, to illicit a response from the killer, who quite clearly still had the phone, as there had not been anything in the woman's suitcase. No-one who was clever enough to have multiple affairs would leave their phone anywhere accidentally. After the killer phoned John's mobile, Sherlock had suggested the two go for dinner. The restaurant happened to be opposite the location that John had texted to the killer and provided a perfect place for a stakeout. Angelo, the owner, had naturally already started to keep an eye on the property opposite, and after a particularly nasty moment where Sherlock had thought John was flirting with him, the duo had chased down a taxi cab that they thought had stopped outside the location. Sherlock had been convinced the man in the taxi had been the killer, staking out the place just as Sherlock and John had been, but alas, the man was nothing more than an American tourist.

Not only had Sherlock and John had to chase the taxi down, but they also ended up having to run away from a too-cautious policeman, after the tourist had flagged him down. Both Sherlock and John had arrived back at 221B, out of breath and laughing at the evening's events. Sherlock anticipated the knock on the door, and as John went to retrieve his forgotten cane from Angelo, Sherlock grinned to himself. He was never wrong. "Mrs Hudson! Dr Watson will take the second bedroom!" Sherlock laughed as John shut the door and came back into the hallway, rolling his eyes. This was going to be fun! The euphoria increased as Mrs Hudson, the landlady, came running down the hallway. "Oh Sherlock, what have you done?" As if in response, a loud crash echoed down the stairs. Now there was an intruder? This evening was proving very fruitful indeed.

Sherlock and John took the stairs two at a time. Oddly enough, the door appeared to be closed. He never closed that door. Beginning to feel dubious, Sherlock entered his flat, to find that Lestrade was seated in Sherlock's favourite chair, lounging about like usual. Crime scene techs milled around in the flat, pulling things off shelves, clearly making every effort to make a mess. Sudden anger burned in Sherlock's veins as he turned to confront the detective. "You can't just break into my flat!" Sherlock was thunderous. Lestrade grinned at him. "It's a drug bust!" Incredulous, John rushed to Sherlock's defence. As usual, the noise in the room was easy to tune out, as Sherlock turned slowly to survey the damage the techs were causing. He shouted at Sergeant Donovan, Moron Number One, who had just recovered his favourite jar of eyeballs. He was using them for a particularly important experiment, which he told her. "Freak" She always called him. Who _didn't_ enjoy a good eyeball experiment or two?

"Is there anything in the case, Alyssa?" Lestrade's voice held a subtle undertone that Sherlock couldn't quite place. Intrigued, he turned to face the girl who was rather cautiously pawing her way through the victim's absurdly pink suitcase. Taking a step forward, he watched as she methodically inspected each item, before carefully returning it. Despite looking younger than everyone else in the room, she at least seemed to be doing her job properly. Tucking a strand of long, blonde hair behind her ear, she rose from her crouched position, and stretched her neck. Sherlock took the opportunity to briefly study her. She was less than average height, slender build. What she lacked in body mass she more than made up for in her chest region. Oh, and in her posterior too, Sherlock noted as she turned away from him to face Lestrade. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock watched John with amusement. His study of the woman was much less subtle. "Hi. I'm uh. John. John Watson." Sherlock stifled a laugh as John held out a ridiculous hand for her to shake. She raised an eyebrow, eying John's hand as though confused as to why this stranger was introducing himself to her.

"The case, Alyssa?" Sherlock turned his attention back to Lestrade, who was showing an uncharacteristic amount of attention on the woman. He had never seen Lestrade focus on anything that wasn't food or tea for more than 5 seconds. Cocking his head to the side, Sherlock followed Lestrade's eye line. Of course, the detective was focussed more on the tech's body than on what she was telling him, which was of course, that there was nothing in the case. Sherlock had rather hoped she might at least mention the absence of the victim's phone, but of course, no one thought quite like he did. How dull.

Lestrade began to fill Sherlock in on the mysterious Rachel. Apparently, the victim had had a stillbirth 14 years ago, and Rachel was the name of the baby. Sherlock shook his head at the sudden shift of emotion in the room. The tech girl (Melissa or something, wasn't it?) had looked down at the ground, subconsciously wiping at her eyes and shaking her head. Both John and Lestrade had a look of sadness that tightened their eyes. Was Sherlock missing some key point here? No, that couldn't be it. He never missed anything. John wondered out loud that maybe the killer had talked the victim into taking the poison, that maybe he had used the death of her daughter as an incentive for her to take her own life. "That was 14 years ago. Why would she still be upset about that now?" Immediately, the infuriating noise in the apartment stopped. Sherlock became very aware that every person in his flat had turned to stare at him. "Not good?" He whispered to John. "Bit not good, yeah" John whispered back.

The conversation once again went back to Rachel, and what it meant as clue. Sherlock sighed loudly. It must be so relaxing having such dull, unobservant minds. He said so, and John looked very confused. Sighing again, Sherlock resigned himself to yet another explanation of the obvious, and he began to explain that the victim had used Rachel as a clue to help them catch the killer. The tech girl stopped him in his tracks. "There is an email address on the suitcase label." Lestrade moved to stand by her, and Sherlock noted how his hand rested on her arm. Odd. That seemed highly unnecessary.

"Oh wonderful, we can possibly get access to her emails. How useful!" Sherlock rolled his eyes at the familiar, nauseating voice. "Stop talking, Anderson, you'll lower the IQ of the whole street." To his amusement, the girl bit back a laugh. Clearly, Sherlock was not the only person who had noticed the forensic scientist's complete idiocy. Like Sergeant Donovan, Anderson (Moron Number Two) had always refused to work directly with Sherlock on cases that Lestrade asked for his help on, which suited Sherlock just fine. Usually with them both around, there was too much stupid in the room, and that made it difficult to concentrate on what really mattered.

"He is right though. What good is an email?" Lestrade was speaking only to the blonde-haired tech now. What was her name, why could Sherlock never remember names? Annoyed, Sherlock butted in. "Well, it is fairly obvious. Or at least it should be, even to you." John continued to look vacant. Once again, the tech girl shocked him. "The victim had a smartphone, Anderson. Even you know that smartphones can be tracked via GPS. All you need is to sign in. The username will be her email." She smiled confidently, and Sherlock nodded in approval. Maybe there was some hope for her yet. "What good is the email without the password though?" Anderson had moved closer to the group, and suddenly clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder in fake wonder. "Oh, I get it. Mr Know-It-All probably already knows it." Lestrade waved Anderson away, who went enthusiastically back to ransacking shelves.

Lestrade and John both looked to Sherlock, who in turn, looked at the girl. Finally remembering what Lestrade had called her, he decided to speak to her directly. She didn't seem quite as unobservant as everyone else in the flat. "Alyssa isn't it?" She smiled. She was rather pretty when she smiled. She turned to look at Lestrade, who was stood so close to her, his arm was gently brushing against hers. Had there been a moment this entire time when he wasn't touching her? "Haven't you figured it out yet?" Lestrade shook his head at Alyssa's voice, looking quite sheepish, and Sherlock clapped his hands in delight. She understood! Finally, someone interesting! Alyssa turned to meet Sherlock's gaze. "By leaving her phone with the killer, and scratching her daughter's name with her dying breath, the victim was giving us her password." Sherlock raised his hands in a silent hallelujah. "Excellent, someone understands! Can you read out the email for me?" Sherlock had time for a brief look at Lestrade's face before turning to face the laptop. Was that… jealousy?

Putting Lestrade's off behaviour out of his mind, he quickly typed in the email as Alyssa read it out to him. Instantly, the GPS tracker showed up on the screen. John took his seat to watch the tracker, as Mrs Hudson called up to Sherlock. His landlady was quite batty at times, and she seemed to think there was a taxi waiting for him. As Mrs Hudson moved to stand in the doorway, continuing to talk, John shouted that the victim's phone was in 221B. Sherlock suddenly went to his mind palace. He yelled for quiet, and for Anderson to turn around – his face was always distracting. He was vaguely aware of Alyssa moving across the room to stand near him. Usually, this would have irritated him, but there were more pressing matters to attend to, and anyway, he didn't find her presence annoying or off-putting.

Who hunts in a crowd? In plain sight? Who could have abducted 4 people from crowded areas, and taken them to such secluded spots for their suicides? Once again, Mrs Hudson was chattering about his taxi downstairs. Sherlock felt Alyssa move even closer. He opened his eyes to meet hers, and suddenly, it all became clear. There was a shadowy figure behind Mrs Hudson. He knew Alyssa saw it too, as her body suddenly became rigid. A text came through on Sherlock's phone. 'Come with me'. He saw Alyssa glance at it and knew that this simple tech somehow understood what was going on, understood better than anyone else in the room, save for himself of course.

Meeting her eyes again, he looked from his phone to the now empty doorway. She nodded slightly, and moved to Lestrade, telling him they were wasting their time in the flat. She was giving him time to act on the mysterious text, before Lestrade and the rest of the Idiot Squad could get involved. If he survived this (this thought always sent addictive adrenaline through his veins), he would have to thank her properly. "John I am going out." Putting on his coat, Sherlock was vaguely aware of John's surprise. "I need some air. Clear my head a bit. Be back in a few."

And with that, Sherlock Holmes walked out of the boring, predictable safety of his flat, to get into a serial killer's taxi.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Sherlock Holmes was a strange man, but a brilliant one. Alyssa had watched first-hand as he figured out that the serial suicides were actually serial killings, by a taxi driver, of all people. She knew Sherlock had been impressed by how quickly she had figured out the relevance of 'Rachel', and she had felt amused by how upset Greg had gotten over it. Alyssa had watched as Sherlock left to place himself at the mercy of the Cabbie Killer, creating a distraction with Greg and the other officers. She hadn't known quite _why_ she had done it, but for a brief moment her eyes had met Sherlock's and she had known that was what he needed her to do. Now, Anderson and Donovan were leading the techs out of the small flat.

"You coming?" Greg's voice was soft, meant for her ears only. Alyssa turned to look at Dr Watson, who was refreshing the GPS tracker every few minutes. Alyssa knew that the phone would soon be on the move, in the same taxi as Sherlock. But of course, John didn't know that. Right then, Alyssa made her decision. "Actually, I think I'm going to stay here. You and I both know this was a waste of time, and Anderson in particular showed too much enthusiasm in ransacking this place. It's only right one of us stays to help tidy it back up." She gave Greg a stern look, and for the second time that evening, he looked sheepish. Letting his hand linger on her arm for a second longer than necessary, DI Lestrade exited the flat to follow his officers.

"Where is the phone moving to?" John Watson jumped slightly. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise you were still here. I thought everyone was leaving?" Alyssa smiled and the man blushed. Rolling her eyes, she explained that she wanted to help tidy up. After all, it was the least she could do. The man stammered his thanks, before whipping his head round to look at the now-beeping laptop. "It's moving. The phone is moving!" Alyssa's heart leapt in sudden fear. Sherlock Holmes was trapped in a taxi with a killer. John was putting on his coat, obviously about to go after the phone, and unbeknownst to him, his friend. Alyssa could not let him leave without telling him of the danger.

"John. Sherlock's taxi that your landlady was talking about. The driver is the killer. Sherlock has gone with him. When that phone stops, Sherlock will be at that location. And so will the killer. Please be careful." John nodded once before sprinting out of the apartment. After a second's hesitation, Alyssa ran after him. "No, Alyssa, I appreciate the help, but I cannot let you come with me. You might get hurt." John was suddenly all business as he waited for a taxi to drive by. "Dr Watson, I am perfectly capable of handling myself, but that is not why I have come after you. You'll need backup." John looked at her in surprise for a moment, startled by the barely concealed frustration at the assumption she would somehow need protection from the killer. "I… I was going to call Lestrade from the taxi…" John started to say, just as a taxi pulled up. Alyssa held the door for him as he got in. "Trust me, John. It'll be quicker if I call him." And before John could protest further, she slammed the door shut, stepping back as the taxi sped off.

After taking a very blurry picture of the taxi's registration number, Alyssa called Lestrade, who of course answered on the first ring, telling him what was happening, and asking for them to start a trace on the taxi John was in. At least this way, Greg and the others would know where the phone stopped, and therefore where the killer lurked. She fiercely hoped that both John and Sherlock would be alright. After a few minutes standing in the cold, she went back into 221B. The men's landlady was busying herself upstairs, trying to sort out the mess that the detectives had left. Alyssa sighed. This had been so pointless. It seemed so ridiculous that Greg had resorted to such a low method of getting Sherlock to comply with his terms. Without a word, Alyssa began to help the landlady. Seeming to understand her silence, the older woman smiled in gratitude.

About 30 minutes later, Greg walked through the door. Alyssa was busy trying to put the books back on Sherlock's shelf in some discernible order. She had been doing this for 10 minutes and had eventually given up trying to figure out how the man ordered his literature, opting for sticking them on the shelves as she found spaces. Sherlock could sort it out when (and it would be when) he returned home. "Why aren't you following John and Sherlock?" Alyssa had not turned to face Greg, which she knew would make him understand that she was upset with him. "I thought you might like to come with me. To make sure they are alright." She stopped replacing books. This was the closest to an apology she would get, most likely.

"Will you be okay now?" Alyssa turned to face the landlady and smiled as kindly as she could. "Of course, dear. Thank you for your help. You bring those boys back safely, now won't you?" Alyssa nodded curtly. She would also make sure that Greg did not put any of them through this stupid, fake 'drug bust' business again. In silence, she followed Greg out to his car. Without a word, he opened the door for her, and she got in quickly. Settling himself into the seat next to her, Greg took a moment before starting the car. He faced her, and Alyssa could read the apology in his eyes. She could also read exactly how he wanted to make this up to her, and it really was not the time. Instead of saying so, Alyssa decided to ignore it.

"This was a ridiculous idea, Greg." He had started the engine, and his hand tightened on the wheel. "It got the job done, didn't it? We are off to catch the killer!" His attempt at light-heartedness did nothing to appease Alyssa. "For one thing, we really frightened that lady. That in itself is bad enough. But we invaded their privacy. Their _home_ , Greg! We are the police, for God's sake! You cannot just bend the law to ensure Sherlock's obedience. He offers his insight on your cases, free of charge I might add, and that's how you repay him?" Temporarily stationary at a traffic light, Greg turned to face her. "Always the voice of the people, aren't you? I did it because Sherlock went off on his own, and he cannot do that. Look at this, right now. He could be dead, and it's his own fault because he ran off without telling anyone!" Alyssa's heart constricted. The thought of the killer claiming yet another victim was abhorrent to her. "Actually, Greg, he did tell someone. He told me." Greg whirled in his seat to face her, and she hurriedly gestured at the road. Slowly, he turned back to focus on his driving. "You two seem like you've been getting along quite well. Strange, really. Sherlock doesn't really like people." Rolling her eyes at his jealousy, Alyssa turned to look out the window. The radio told her that they were getting close, and that a shot had been fired. Greg picked up the pace.

Several minutes later, and they had arrived at a cluster of old buildings. Some sort of College, she thought. An ambulance was already on the scene, and several officers were sectioning off one of the buildings. Getting out the car, Alyssa saw Sherlock being brought out to the ambulance. He kept shrugging off an orange shock blanket. Sighing in relief that he was okay, Alyssa walked straight past Greg and the others, who were taking photos of Sherlock in his blanket, and into the building, pausing only to put on some booties. Pulling on some latex gloves, she followed the sound of footsteps above her, until she reached the crime scene.

Instantly, she recognised the taxi driver who had stood ominously in the shadowed corridor in Sherlock's flat. He was the victim of the shot that they had heard over the radio. Glasses askew, the man had died in a pool of his own blood. Another tech was pulling a small, pink pill from the killer's hand, and bagging it. Looking around the room, Alyssa could see two bottles, one lying on the floor and the other standing next to a fake gun on the table. Another, identical pill lay to the side, as if it had been thrown. Suddenly, the killings made sense. Two identical bottles, two identical pills. One deadly, one fine. She took the bagged pill from the tech, and made a small notation, stating this had been recovered from the killer. She then bagged the other pill, and labelled it as '? Sherlock's'.

Evidence in one hand, Alyssa made her way back outside. John Watson was stood on the other side of the police tape, watching Sherlock in his shock blanket. She smiled – the paramedic had finally gotten his way it seemed. Sherlock was deep in conversation with Greg as she approached. "He had an aneurysm, and he seemed to think that he was playing 'chess' with the victims. Outliving them as they chose the wrong bottle." Sherlock looked up as Alyssa stood beside him and watched very closely as Greg automatically took a step closer to her. She remained motionless. Greg was still berating him for going off on his own "for the second time, Sherlock! You could have been killed!". Sherlock scoffed, stating that the killer was not as intelligent as he thought he'd been. He gave the victims the bad pill, keeping the good one for himself, knowing that with a gun to their head, the victims were less likely to swap bottles, instead just taking whatever pill was in front of them. "An easy kill!" Sherlock said with satisfaction, "but he didn't think I would figure it out! That is why he was surprised that I chose the good pill. His bottle. So, Lestrade, I knew I wasn't going to die".

"I think you're wrong." Alyssa said simply. Both Sherlock and Greg turned to look at her in disbelief. "I'm never wrong." There was an edge to his voice, but Alyssa just shrugged. "I can prove it." Gesturing, Sherlock motioned for her to do so. She removed both pieces of evidence, explaining which pill had been on the floor ("Sherlock's pill") and the pill found on the victim. Quickly running to the nearest tech van, she grabbed a kit and took it back to the ambulance. She put a small amount of the powder from Sherlock's pill into a test tube, leaving enough to be tested more thoroughly back in the lab. Already knowing the poison after reading several reports from the previous victims, Alyssa knew exactly what chemical would react to show the poison. Very carefully, she measured a tiny amount of the counter-chemical and poured it into the tube. Instantly, the powder began to fizz, and turned a shocking blue. Smirking, she stood up, and looked at both men expectantly.

"How… how did you know?" Sherlock looked so confused, Alyssa almost felt sorry for him. "You said that the man had an aneurysm. He was already dying. You said he had lost everything, his wife, his children – he would have been depressed. Suicidal. He kept the bad pills for himself because he had nothing more to live for. If the victims took the good pill, he would die, and it would all be over. The sweet release of death. However, if he took the good pill, his children would get money. Either way it was a win-win for him. It really was just like chess – he abducted clever people who thought the same way you did. That he would keep the good pill for himself." Lestrade laughed at Sherlock's shocked expression. "I think you've just been told you're relatively ordinary, Sherlock!" Sherlock turned to study Alyssa, and she lifted her chin. He seemed to recognise that she wasn't just some mindless tech drone – she had some intelligence too. Very, very slowly, he nodded, as if in approval, and graced her with a smile. Still laughing, Lestrade placed a hand on Alyssa's back, and began to steer her away, back to his car.

"I can see now why you would risk your marriage for Alyssa, Lestrade. Pretty, _and_ with brains! She's like your opposite!" Alyssa froze. Lestrade whirled to face Sherlock, who had taken his turn to do the smirking. With a grace belying his height, Sherlock hopped off the ambulance and walked over to them, John joining him. "Everything okay here?" John smiled a hello at Alyssa, who was still frozen. How could he possibly know? They were so careful… "Yes, yes, John, everything is fine. I was just marvelling at how Inspector Lestrade has kept his affair quiet for so long." John looked from Greg, to Alyssa, back to Greg. Greg dropped his hand immediately, but the damage had been done.

"I don't know what you are trying to prove, Sherlock, but I suggest you keep your mouth shut!" Greg growled. Sensing that their colleagues were beginning to look in their direction, Alyssa laid a hand on his arm, to calm him. "It's your turn to explain. But please. Quietly?" Alyssa kept her voice soft, and Sherlock cocked his head. She did not break the eye contact, silently begging him to do as she asked and keep his voice low. Nodding, he moved closer to them, as did John. "Lestrade has mentioned several times these past few months that his marriage is beginning to break down. Around this time, he started dressing in nicer clothes for work, obviously trying to impress someone. And now, tonight, he has taken every opportunity to either be close to you or touch you in some form. Add that to his blatant jealousy at my admiration of your intellect and I would say the two of you have been engaged in an affair for some time, which is likely the cause of his marriage breakdown." Alyssa gaped at the man, who grinned at her. "Don't worry. I won't say anything. Honestly, I am just glad to have another intellectual around. Things are much more fun when someone else understands." And with that, he walked off with John, grinning to himself.

"I… Alyssa. I'm sorry." Confused, she turned to face Greg, who seemed completely distraught that they had been discovered. "Greg… it was bound to happen sooner or later. Let's just… stay away from each other for a week or so. Let everyone who may have overheard tonight think that they misinterpreted it. It'll be fine. It always is." Nodding, Greg turned and walked away, getting into his car and driving off.

Alyssa made her way back to the building, to continue to gather evidence. No one seemed to notice her, which suited her fine. It meant she was left to her own thoughts, which were currently tangled. She would never admit it to Greg, but she was secretly marvelling at how easily Sherlock had guessed about their affair, and also a little bit pleased. If anything was going to force Greg to decide whether he wanted to go public or end it, it would be this. Alyssa had been tired of the secrecy for a while. Remembering Sherlock's statement of how she was pretty but with brains, Alyssa smiled to herself, a faint blush colouring her cheeks.

Yes, that Sherlock Holmes was a strange man. Brilliant. But definitely strange.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

For several days, Alyssa heard nothing from anyone. Greg had been ignoring her; whenever she entered a room at work, he would find an excuse to leave it the moment she entered. Hardly subtle, but comical nonetheless. Their next interaction came in the form of a text message, one Sunday afternoon. "Watson has invited us both for a few drinks at his and Sherlock's place. 7 o'clock." And that was it. Alyssa sent back a quick "okay" in response, before checking the clock. 4:30pm. Still plenty of time to get ready. Settling back against the many cushions on her leather sofa, Alyssa thought back to the last time she had seen Lestrade, the night when Sherlock had made the brilliant deduction of their affair. She knew that had pretty much been the death sentence for her secret nights with the Inspector, and the majority of her was almost relieved by this. Whilst sneaking around was practically second nature to her, part of her had always felt guilty.

Alyssa had had no intention of starting an affair with Greg Lestrade when she had first met him. He had been having marital troubles long before she had begun working within the forensics department; the constant bags under his eyes and short temper had been evidence enough for that. At the beginning, Alyssa and Greg had had very little contact with each other. They had been briefly introduced, and they saw each other occasionally in the field if Alyssa was called out to a scene, but they did not exchange even a single word before That Day. For several weeks before the day in question, Alyssa noticed a change in the man. He appeared to be more relaxed; he would later describe it as a feeling of 'freedom'. She hadn't known it then, but his arguments at home had gotten to the point where Greg and his wife had gone on a 'break'. His wife had gone to stay with her parents, leaving Greg alone at home. "We decided time apart was what we both needed, if we were ever going to make our marriage work again." Greg told Alyssa once. That may well have worked, had it not been for That Day.

That Day had been a long one. Alyssa had been asked to work an extra shift, mere seconds before walking out the door. There had been a shooting in downtown London, with lots of evidence to be collected, and half of the night shift had called in sick. 'Food poisoning' apparently, from the Night Shift Team Night Out that had taken place the previous evening; the team did it every few months, their way of blowing off steam. Interpreting 'food poisoning' as 'supremely hungover', Alyssa had begrudgingly accepted the extra shift, and had driven herself to the scene. The scene had been a rarely used side street, the body about halfway down. The scene itself wasn't particularly special; just an alleyway like any other, leading to a busier part of London. Dark, dank and completely cliché. Just as she was exiting her car, forensics kit already in hand, she had heard the report come over the police radio of the suspect being sighted several streets over. As one, the police officers went off in pursuit. After all, the only body in the vicinity was the dead man. Alyssa was safe.

She was, of course, wrong. As Alyssa had begun slowly assessing the body, already cleared to remove evidence from the Coroner, who had been leaving as she arrived, she had heard faint movement from the far end of the alley. Assuming it was just another police officer, Alyssa had bent down, to retrieve several interesting fibres that seemed to be stuck to the congealing blood around the bullet wound in the dead man's head. The footsteps had come to a halt, and a faint prickling on her neck made Alyssa look up. Stood several metres in front of her, was a tall, very angry-looking man, holding a gun. Oddly, the man appeared to be holding some form of fabric, a hoodie maybe, over the barrel of the gun. The barrel that was pointing at her.

"Strange choice for a silencer. I've heard potatoes work better." Alyssa remained crouched down, calmer than anyone else would have been in that situation. She never took her eyes off of the gun, already calculating possible ways to shield herself. Unfortunately, her options in this bare alleyway were limited. She had to keep him talking, keep him distracted, until someone decided to come back to check on her. "In case ya hadn't noticed, love, there's a shortage of potatoes in this alley. Gotta use what I got, y'know what I'm saying?" Despite herself, Alyssa chuckled a little. The man had a slight accent, that she couldn't quite place. "You're pretty aren't ya, for a police officer." Rolling her eyes, Alyssa decided against correcting the man. She didn't feel it would be particularly useful in getting her out of the situation. She wondered if she could tackle him. He looked to be around 6ft, almost an entire foot taller than her, but he was skinny, there was not much to him. However, the hand holding the gun was steady, and the man was calm, even calmer than her. He had done this before, and he would not hesitate to do it again.

"Shame really. You're _so_ pretty, that I almost feel bad for having to kill ya. But, you've seen me now. Can't go letting ya live after that now, can I?". The man motioned with his gun for her to stand, and Alyssa did so, very slowly, hands above her head. "Why did you come back? Why risk it?" Keep him talking, Alyssa, it is your best chance, she kept repeating in her head. The man smiled, and it was a menacing one. He knew he had her trapped. He had quite clearly orchestrated the fake sighting a few streets over. Once again motioning with the gun, he nudged it slightly to Alyssa's left. Lying in the shadow of several bins, was a leather wallet. Alyssa sighed, and the smile became a sneer. How could she have missed something so damn obvious?

"It's been a pleasure talking with ya, pretty officer. But, now it's time for ya to die." The man centred the gun on her again, and Alyssa knew this was the end. She quickly shifted her position, so that the bullet would miss her heart. It was a subtle shift, the man did not even notice it, however it was Alyssa's last hope for survival. Surely by now, the police would have realised the "sighting" of the suspect was a fake and would be heading back to the crime scene. Her only hope now was to be found in time, before bleeding out. The sneer had disappeared from the man's face now, a grim determination casting shadows over his visage. Alyssa prepared herself, bracing her body and her mind for the inevitable ripping sensation that would come with the bullet wound. Closing her eyes, she waited…

Alyssa heard the gun shot, but no bolt of lightning tore through her body, signifying the path of the bullet. She was aware of a dull thud, a body hitting the floor. Was she still standing? Where was the pain? The frantic beating of her heart, as well as her ragged breathing, appeared to echo through the alleyway as Alyssa opened her eyes. Immediately, she noticed the second body lying on the floor of the alleyway, in the exact spot the killer had been standing. She blinked a few times before looking at her hands. She definitely did not have a gun. A faint shouting was beginning to weave its way through the fog of breathing and heart beats that currently occupied her hearing, as she took a confused step towards the body.

"Hey! Hey! Are you alright?" Alyssa started as someone clapped a strong hand on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. The weight was comforting, and she spun to face a man she vaguely recognised as Detective Lestrade. His face was a picture of concern, his mouth continuing to move, however the fog still hadn't quite cleared yet, and his words were taking much longer to reach her. Alyssa nodded dimly, before pushing his hand off and moving to the original body. Other officers were arriving now, including more crime scene analysts, who clearly had no idea that she had almost been shot. They reported to her, waiting for instruction. Her heart was beginning to slow down now, her mind becoming clearer, and she realised that she may well be going into shock. She needed to get out of the alley, fast.

After a brief few minutes telling the analysts what needed to be collected and in what manner, Alyssa quickly finished collecting the fibres she had been retrieving before nearly getting herself killed. She also bagged the killer's hoodie, using the evidence as an excuse to retreat to the lab. She walked past Detective Lestrade without looking at him, ignoring his attempt to stop her, to talk to her, and got into her car. Hardly daring to breathe, out of fear she may break down, she turned the volume of her stereo up, blasting her favourite band out of her speakers as she sped away from the scene, and the horrors that had happened there.

The thumping rhythm of her favourite song carried her the whole way back to the lab, the deep bass pounding away at her memories of the evening, until all that was left in her mind was the melodic vocals. Several hours later, Alyssa was sat in the lab, analysing the fibres, singing softly under her breath. "I wanted to hide, now I just wanna find you…" The repetitive lyrics soothed her, as she hummed quietly. She was busy comparing the fibres from the bullet wound in the victim, to the hoodie that the killer had been holding over the gun. It was obviously the right suspect, his trying to shoot her was proof of that, however that would not hold up in court. She needed to match the fibres, test the hoodie for gun shot residue, and hopefully match DNA from the sweat stains to the man who had threatened her. Not that any of it mattered now.

"What do I know? Maybe the silence is dangerous…" Her singing stopped abruptly as she became aware of the door to the lab opening. She looked up from the microscope to find Detective Lestrade standing there, watching her. She blushed as he grinned at her, and she realised just how boyish the older man was. "Don't stop on my account. There aren't enough people in this place happy enough to sing." She laughed at that, and his grin widened. He waved his arm slightly, silently asking if he could move closer to the microscope. Alyssa nodded, and her blush deepened as he moved closer. "I came to see how you were doing. You left in quite a hurry back there. I got worried you might have been in shock." She sighed. This was exactly what she had wanted to avoid. "Look, Detective I…." Her reluctance must have shown on her face, for the man held up a hand, and his eyes became apologetic. "If you don't want to talk that's fine. Thought you might have wanted to thank me for saving your life though!" He smiled at her again, a mischievous glint lighting his startling brown eyes.

"Honestly, I hadn't given much thought to how that man got shot. I was just so glad to get out of there!" Lestrade moved closer to her, close enough that she could smell his aftershave, and he laid that comforting hand on her shoulder again. This time she didn't shrug it off. He smelled woody, heady, and faintly of musk. Heat flooded her body as she became all too aware of their closeness, and without thinking, she raised her head to meet his gaze. There seemed to be a fire in his eyes that matched what was coursing through her body, and she quickly tore her gaze away to look at the scope. Lestrade had stopped smiling, an intensity she'd never seen in anyone lighting his face, making it difficult to look away.

"Mind if I take a look?" His voice was softer now, softer but gruffer, an edge to it. The intensity of his eyes had reached his voice, it seemed. Trying not to breathe, Alyssa nodded, and went to push herself away from the workstation, but the hand on her shoulder gently caressed its way down her back, to rest on the table top, the path it traced burning ever so slightly. Lestrade leaned forward, to look into the scope, pinning her next to him. She was so close, she could feel his body as he leaned over her legs. Without meaning to, she studied his physique; he was muscular, more muscular than she might have believed at first glance. The heat in her body was beginning to become a crescendo, the combination of his body so close to hers and the smell of his aftershave weaving together to create a fire that she was slowly becoming engulfed by. Desperate not to lose control, she tried to find something else to focus on, but the damned man chose that exact moment to look away from the scope, directly into her eyes.

"He was right, you know. You are very pretty." Lestrade's eyes never left her face. Alyssa was about to blush even more, but his words sank in and suddenly she was angry. "Just how long were you stood there? I thought I was going to die! Didn't you think to intervene sooner?" He laughed at her indignant expression, before bringing his face intoxicatingly close to hers. "He didn't seem to see me in the shadows. I thought I'd be a hero. Save the damsel in distress." It was becoming very, very difficult to think straight, as his eyes, and their heat, burned into her. "I… I am no damsel. I can take perfectly good care of myself thank you." Lestrade brought his face even closer to hers, his lips barely brushing her cheek. "Prove it to me." His whispers stoked the flames, and without thinking about the consequences, or about the fact that she had heard someone say weeks ago that this man had a wife, Alyssa had succumbed to the fire.

7pm arrived, and Alyssa was standing outside Baker Street, her ruminations of her first meeting with Lestrade echoing in her mind. Trying desperately to forget just how passionate that evening had been, she crossed the street, and knocked on the door of 221B. Mrs Hudson answered the door and gave a delighted squeal when she noticed the bottle of wine in Alyssa's hand. Grinning, Alyssa followed her up the stairs, and into the flat of Watson and Sherlock. Lestrade was already there, talking to the other two men. All three looked up at her as she entered, and she smiled. Briefly meeting Lestrade's eyes, she blushed and looked away, memories of the weight of his body on top of hers cutting into her usually controlled mind. Watson and Sherlock appeared oblivious to this and invited her to sit down.

As memories knocked at her consciousness, Alyssa settled herself in a seat next to Watson, and took a sip of the wine Mrs Hudson poured for her automatically. She _hated_ wine, and she remembered that fact immediately. She pulled a face and set the glass down. "Not a fan of wine, I take it?" Alyssa looked up at Watson and grinned sheepishly. "It's polite, isn't it, to bring wine to a gathering? Honestly, though, I would much prefer rum!" The man laughed at that, and began discussing the merits of a good wine and for a moment Alyssa studied him. He was smaller in stature than the other two men in the room but had the same greying hair as Lestrade. His eyes twinkled, and appeared to be the most unusual combination of blue and grey. They really were the kindest eyes Alyssa had ever seen, and she instantly warmed to him. They continued to talk about alcohol for a few more minutes, before turning their attention to Sherlock and Lestrade.

"What do you mean, you're going on holiday? You can't go on holiday. Who is going to give me cases if you aren't here to need me?" Lestrade rolled his eyes at Sherlock's tone, and Alyssa supressed a giggle. "Sherlock, I'm sure you can survive for a few weeks without me. Anyway, there are other detectives on the force. If they need you, I'm sure they'll exhaust every other option before calling you." Both Alyssa and Watson laughed at Lestrade's words, and Sherlock finally turned his attention to her. "Alyssa! Tell the Detective he simply cannot leave!" Tilting her head to one side, Alyssa gazed at the taller, rather eccentric looking man. "Well, I mean, I could tell him that, but I really doubt he would listen to me." All eyes were on Sherlock now, who looked positively confused. He looked between Alyssa and Lestrade for a moment, before settling back down into his chair, arching his fingertips as he did so. "Surely, you must be going with him, if he is going away?" Sherlock was looking fervently at Alyssa now, and she failed to see where his scrutiny was leading. She heard a faint, "here we go" from Watson, as Lestrade awkwardly brushed a hand through his hair.

"Sherlock, I am going away with my wife." Lestrade's voice was firm, a tone he usually reserved for Anderson when he was being particularly useless. Alyssa carefully hid her shock; so _that_ was why he had been avoiding her. He hadn't wanted to admit things were over between them. The fool probably assumed she would get emotional about it. "That doesn't make any sense. You and Alyssa are together. You clearly care more for her than for your wife. You certainly started to dress better when you met Alyssa." Alyssa snorted, and suddenly all eyes were on her again. Rolling her eyes, she decided to be blunt. "Sherlock. Me and Lestrade were having sex, simply because he and his wife were separated, and he was frustrated. Clearly, they are trying to make things work again. Congratulations on that, by the way."

She directed her last sentence to Lestrade, who was sat in his chair, gaping at her. His mouth snapped closed, and he gave a small nod of acceptance. Watson shifted uncomfortably. Sherlock had not moved a single muscle, continuing to evaluate hers and Lestrade's every word and movement. "That doesn't seem very fair. Are you sure you are choosing correctly, Detective?" Watson suddenly glanced sharply at Sherlock, and muttered "not appropriate". Sherlock's eyes became slightly clouded, as though he was, for the first time, uncertain of what was going on.

"Look, Sherlock, not that this is something I would usually admit to two men I barely know, but whilst my time with Lestrade has been… pleasurable… we both knew it would never amount to more than a few nights a week, secreted away in my apartment. It _never_ amounts to more than that. Men are just men, Sherlock. They see me, and all they see is my body. It's fine. It fills a void. I'm not stupid enough to believe any man would ever actually _fall_ for me. It is what it is." Alyssa shrugged, nonchalance seeping out of every pore. It was true, after all. She could only work with what she knew, and loveless sex was just that. All she knew. The atmosphere of the room had changed during her little speech. Sherlock looked almost ashamed of himself, Watson looked like she had suddenly grown two heads, and Lestrade. Well. His face was a storm of emotions. Guilt. Sadness. Pity. Disbelief.

It wasn't long before the men decided to call it a night. Mrs Hudson had arrived just after Alyssa's tirade, offering nibbles and more wine, and both Alyssa and Lestrade had stood at the same moment, making their excuses. Sherlock hadn't spoken a single word since her revelation, but he did glance at her briefly as she put on her coat and said goodbye. His expression was almost sad, like he was trying to apologise in that single look. She smiled slightly and headed downstairs and into the cold. "Do you need a lift home?" Alyssa glanced up at Lestrade, who was stood, hovering by the driver's side of his car. Did she really want to prolong this evening? He clearly wanted to say something to her, he kept playing with his hands and running them through his hair. He always did that when he was nervous. Sighing, she stepped around the car, and into the passenger seat.

The ride was a silent one, and Alyssa was becoming more and more unnerved by Lestrade's lack of words. He kept shooting little glances at her, before ruffling his hair and turning his attention back to the road. Soon, they were parked outside her apartment block, the engine idling. Abruptly, Lestrade twisted the key, shutting it off. Sensing the beginning of whatever he had on his mind, Alyssa braced herself. He took a few deep breaths, before whirling in his seat to face her. "What if I left my wife?" Her breath whooshed out of her body, so fast she almost choked. "I'm sorry, what?!" His face was earnest now, boyish again in its innocence. "Sherlock was right, in a way. I have to make a decision. I don't want to be yet another man who's taken advantage of how beautiful you are. You deserve to be happy, to be spoiled and loved." Alyssa mouth fell open in complete shock. What the hell was going on? "Greg, sweetie, how much did you drink tonight?" He laughed, before gently pulling her close to him. He made to kiss her, but Alyssa pushed him back.

"Woah, woah, woah. Okay. Sherlock has clearly gotten into your head. You do not want to leave your wife." Lestrade made to protest, but she pressed a finger to his lips. "Let me finish." She spoke more gently now, willing him to understand her. "Sherlock Holmes is right about almost everything. But he is wrong about this. You absolutely do not care more for me than for your wife." Lestrade took hold of her wrist, pulling it away from his face. "But I want you to be happy…" Once again, Alyssa shushed the Detective. "I know you do. And you feel guilty because I let slip that I've never had a relationship. But that is not a reason to leave your marriage. You want to be with me for all the wrong reasons. You do not love me. That's okay. I don't love you either." Now Lestrade looked shocked. Alyssa giggled, before leaning her head against his shoulder. "We are always going to be close, you and me. But as friends. I do not, in any way, hold anything against you. These past few months have been… well. Entertaining to say the least. I'm glad it's happened. But we both need to move on now. You can make things work with your wife, if you really want to. And honestly? I think you do."

Lestrade pulled her face up to his and kissed her very sweetly on the lips. She smiled, a little sadly. After all of their fiery, passionate kisses, kisses that had made her beg him for more, this one tasted distinctly of goodbye. Grabbing her coat and bag, Alyssa stepped out of his car, and walked up the front steps to her building. Turning, she saw Lestrade waiting for her to unlock the door. Always the policeman, needing to know she was safe. Sherlock may have interpreted that as love, or care, but Alyssa knew, in all reality, that it was just who Lestrade was. Just his personality. She closed the door slowly. She could practically feel the metaphorical ending of that chapter of her life as she did so.

When she got to her flat, Alyssa kicked off her shoes, and studied her home. The walls were practically bare, no photographs or picture frames anywhere. She felt an unusual pang of loneliness, at the stark reminder of how few people she was close to. She moved to her sofa and collapsed upon the myriad cushions and throws that littered it, suddenly exhausted. She wondered briefly if she should have accepted Lestrade's offer. After all, it wasn't like she was just going to suddenly meet a man who would fall in love with her, with all of her, like in some fairy-tale. Life simply wasn't like that.

Despite this however, Alyssa quickly sank into sleep, dreaming of faceless men come to turn her into a Princess…


End file.
